Moonlit Apples by John Drinkwater

Not just a treasury but a very precious little treasure too. Published in 1947, the poems may no longer be quite so modern but they are still certainly beautiful. Here is one I particularly liked …. ‘deep is the silence.’

 

                     Moonlit Apples

At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows,
And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those
Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes
A cloud on the moon in the autumn night.

A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then
There is no sound at the top of the house of men
Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again
Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.

They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;
On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams
Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,
And quiet is the steep stair under.

In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.
And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep
Tryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deep
On moon-washed apples of wonder.

Advertisements

Insecticide

Questions come like flies on a summer’s eve
To settle on me in plagues of glassy blue,
A loud tinnitus hum that will not leave
Despite every damned thing I try to do.
Do you think of me or not very much
Now? Do you worry that my love is spent?
Do you miss my face my hands my touch?
Are the things you say platitudes or meant?
I do not know. I only know they grow
In number, swarming black against my sky.
I arm myself with weapons, watch their flow
Unstoppable procession, who will die
First? Not my love, I know that’s true
I can’t swat it away easily. You?

Love, Bites

25A9C2F2-40DF-49D2-B973-3E9E688B4F7F

Oh little horsefly,
Summer lover of skin,
Your bites they can wound me,
But please, dig right in.

Feast while you can love,
While attraction remains,
My heart and my blood
Are reward for your pains.

Have all that you want,
Then vanish from sight,
Fly away quickly,
Until some other night

And these love bites, I’ll keep them
Though they hurt and are sore.
Your bites, they go deep dear;
Give me some more.

Midsummer

C72360F0-F503-49D0-98E7-18FEC24118B5

Sunset at Stonehenge Ruins by Ryan Fox

For my most favourite day of the year…

Let me rest my back against your cold stone
And watch the sun rise in front of us.
I cannot hear you breathe but you live
And I feel everything of you as we stand here together, your
Ancient blood seeping into my living veins telling
Of all that has come before
And all that promises to be.

It is a beautiful dawn.

Perhaps later, as the sun dwindles,
I shall lie here in this field of grass
Under your shadow, at your altar,
And watch as the world begins to grow dark
Begins to grow silent
Begins to grow cold,
Is bought to heel again,

And remember this magic.

Aloud

I like to say your name aloud.
I love the way it rolls of my tongue, 
To hear the syllables, approximant
In their approximation of my love for you.

Allowed, I would speak your name to anyone who would listen,
Releasing its long vowels and plosives
In explosive declarations of love
That would tell everyone and anyone that 
This man,
This beautiful man, 
Whose name rests impatiently on my lips, 
Is the man I love,
The man I need.
This man,
Is mine.

Aloud, I speak your name
As I walk alone in late evening sun.
I hear it, short and sweet,
Unrounded, closed,
As I disclose wildest dreams
To snag and hang on thorny hedgerows
To wave like prayer flags
For the passing birds and 
Startled fallow deer to hear.

Aloud, I speak your name to the wind,
Allow its pitch and tenor
To be swept away on the wings of warm, invisible currents
And imagine somehow, somewhere,
It will find its way back to you
So you can hear it:
My gentle voice on the breeze
Calling your name softly.

‘Come Slowly-Eden’ By Emily Dickinson

If only you knew how heartbreakingly beautiful you are,
How you are so many perfect things,
How your touch is honey,
How your absence stings.

 525C47E9-B53E-47FC-8EB2-ADEE7A588364

Come slowly—Eden
Lips unused to Thee—
Bashful—sip thy Jessamines
As the fainting Bee—

Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums—
Counts his nectars—
Enters—and is lost in Balms.

Emily Dickinson